Tether ⌲ Stiles Stilinski [2]

twelve

At the front entrance of Beacon Hills High School, Ms. Blake stood handing out programs to the droves of parents and faculty arriving to the concert to enjoy the show and pay their respects. She waved them in kindly, and I couldn't help but think that as we all marched along in a line into the building, someone here was taking a final death march. The wind swept up underfoot, blowing leaves across the pavement.

The drive over had been silent and tense. Chris had taken it upon himself to drive us there in order to not let us out of his sight. I had texted Stiles too, and Scott, and Lydia. We were now all hopefully on the same page. A teacher would die tonight if we didn't do anything to stop it. How we were supposed to stop it, however, was another question entirely. One that none of us had the answer to.

Once inside the auditorium, I leaned over to Allison. "What are we supposed to do?"

My father overheard me. "You aren't supposed to do anything, just wait. We don't know the target yet."

"Isn't that all the more reason to take action?" my sister countered.

"No. We're waiting. Go find your friends, try to act natural and enjoy the concert. This isn't your job."

Allison rolled her eyes, but took the excuse to get up and leave Dad's side. I looked around at the faces of every unsuspecting teacher and could feel my heart sinking. There were dozens of them, so it would be nearly impossible to keep watch of them all. Scanning the room, my eye caught on Ms. Morrell talking to a few guests on the side of a row. I wondered to myself if Scott still believed she could be the Darach. We had clearly disproved Allison's theory, so she was the only suspect we knew of that was left. A more troubling thought, was that she could easily be the next target instead.

"You go check up on Lydia," Allison said to me. "I'm going to do a round of the room. I want to count how many teachers are here tonight and maybe ask Scott for his opinion."

I nodded and she gave my arm a small squeeze before disappearing. When I found the strawberry blonde in the crowd, standing at the back behind all of the rows of seating, I smiled and stepped into place next to her.

"You made it." She was smiling politely back, but I noticed that she was clearly on edge because of the way she wouldn't quit chewing on her bottom lip.

"I made it." I echoed. "How are you feeling?"

"Not good. You?"

"Me neither."

"Do you have any idea who it's going to be?" she asked, inhaling and exhaling shakily.

"No," I replied solemnly. "It could be any of them."

After a moment of silence, she spoke quietly with her eyes trained directly ahead. "You found Mr. Westover? You saw his body?"

I nodded.

"You know, I was in his room today," she shook her head, looking down at the toes of her high heels. "I knew he was gone. I knew it. There was a Celtic knot drawn on his chalkboard. Ms. Blake thought I was the one who drew it there."

"And were you?'"

"I had chalk on my hands," Lydia murmured. "But no, I don't remember it."

The band had filed on stage, and with the composer's lead, they began to play a soft lilting song of remembrance.

"I just keep thinking," she continued over the music. "I should've known, right? I already knew he was the sacrifice. If I had done something about it we could've found him. You wouldn't have had to have seen him at the power station."

I placed a hand on her shoulder. "Lydia, we can't get stuck blaming ourselves. I'm pretty sure he was dead long before I got there. Long before you could've known."